


Like eating pomegranate seeds

by holograms



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fletcher remembers the first time, when they had fought and yelled at each other until they were breathless and wound up in a way that they can only bring out in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like eating pomegranate seeds

**Author's Note:**

> Just some shameless smut.
> 
> And yes, the title is a reference to the Hades and Persephone myth.

Andrew’s mouth is perfect for cock sucking. His lips are plump and red and wet, and he isn’t afraid to get messy, with pre-come smeared on his chin and spit running out of the corners of his mouth.  Plus, it’s a time that he actually shuts up, except for the delicious keening sounds that escape from his throat and get muffled by the cock he has his lips stretched over, him moaning like sucking cock is his most favorite thing to do.

Fletcher made this discovery because Andrew has been doing it regularly for some time now.  Blowing him, that is.  Fletcher knows that he should feel ashamed, but he can’t help it when the boy gives himself up to him so willingly.  Fletcher remembers the first time, when they had fought and yelled at each other until they were breathless and wound up in a way that they can only bring out in each other, and somehow, either as someone making true on a shouted insult or as a genuine suggestion because of overpowering sexual tension, it happened. Andrew had dropped to his knees and tugged open Fletcher’s pants and Fletcher had said, “ _You don’t have to,”_ to which Andrew said, “ _I want to.”_ And then Andrew had the audacity to wrap his hand around Fletcher’s erection and give it one slow, obscene lick from base to tip and then ask, “ _is this good?_ ” and Fletcher had to hold back a laugh because yes, it was very good, but of course he couldn’t tell Andrew that, so instead he made the most non-committal noise he could muster and said, “ _you can keep living out your faggot fantasy, but this won’t earn you extra points from me.”_

Andrew had kept doing it, and Fletcher let him. After the first time, Fletcher had made him leave — because what had he been thinking?  Of all the idiotic students he’s had he has never let it go that far, and he never will again.  But the next day things were just too charged between them, and after half a bottle of whiskey at Fletcher’s place there was a second time, with Andrew between Fletcher’s thighs and sucking him off with enthusiasm. That time, Andrew was the one who made the decision to leave; he bolted from the room with come still on his lips and his pants too tight in the front.

During the third time, Fletcher slipped his hand into Andrew’s pants and told Andrew to stay, breathing it into his neck like a confession.

There were more times after that, but they lost count.

It’s nice to have someone debase themselves just for scraps of attention.  It’s a good thing that Andrew can survive on a little bit — that way, Fletcher can stretch it out, and keep him around for a long time.

Not that Andrew would ever leave, though. He can’t.  Andrew is as dependent on Fletcher to make him Great, as Fletcher is dependent on Andrew to be _his_ Great. The tragic thing is they both know this about each other, and they use it to make the other miserable — taunting, because it’s their weakness.

( _“I don’t need you,_ ” Fletcher lies.  Andrew looks sad, and for a moment Fletcher is pleased that he hurt his feelings, until he realizes that Andrew’s expression is of _pity_. Then he slaps Andrew in the face, and shoves him down on the floor in front of him.  Andrew asks for more, and Fletcher is glad to abide.) 

Fletcher may have captured him, but Andrew has become just as corrupted as him.  He always had that tendency, Fletcher just had to show him.  He wouldn’t do any good anywhere else.  Andrew should be thanking Fletcher.

Fletcher groans, his thoughts brought back to the present — he’s on his living room couch and Andrew has his cock in his mouth (and this time they didn’t even use the pretense of a practice to do this, Fletcher had texted Andrew and told him to come over, no other stipulations). Andrew is doing something extra wonderful with his tongue, running it along the underside of his dick as he pulls off slowly, then taking him back in his mouth.  Andrew seems to be spurred on by Fletcher’s pleased reaction, so he hallows out his cheeks and sucks hard, and there’s a glint of a smile in his eyes.

It’s strange how Andrew can look like a large incompetent child sometimes, but at others like a hot, torrid fucktoy.  He’s right over the edge of twenty and is beautiful, no clear idea of his worth (because Fletcher would never tell him so, his ego is big enough already), still awkward with flailing limbs and a soft stomach — but not for long, Fletcher will have him shaped up perfectly in no time, in every way.  Andrew will be the masterpiece of his making, pin him to the wall to display, so everyone knows that he is _his_. 

If Andrew were somebody else, he would be fucking some young girl or guy his age and falling in love, instead of condemning himself with whatever this is with someone almost three times his age.

But, it works out perfectly for Fletcher, so he isn’t complaining.

Andrew is pretty when he sucks his cock, sweaty and flushed all the way down to his chest, his mouth a mess and dripping with spit and come, all for him.  It's atrocious. But fascinating.  Andrew looks up at Fletcher with lazy eyes though dark eyelashes.  In a moment of impulsivity, Fletcher lightly presses his hand to the side of Andrew’s face, his palm curling around his cheek and fingers brushing against his ear.  At first, Andrew flinches, as if he thinks Fletcher is going to hit him, but once he realizes that the touch is gentle he leans into the touch and his eyes flutter shut.

“C’mon,” Fletcher says, running his hand through Andrew’s hair, playing with sweat-damp curls, “be a good boy,” and it’s _exactly_ the encouragement from him that Andrew needs.  Andrew makes the most lovely whining noise that Fletcher feels reverberate around him, and Andrew grabs at Fletcher’s hips as his slides his mouth to the head of Fletcher's cock. He tightens his lips and digs his tongue into Fletcher’s slit, lapping at what’s leaking out, making all sorts of wet, sloppy sounds.  Fletcher gasps, curses, “fuck, Andrew,” and his hands fall to Andrew’s shoulders and grips him hard, adding to the bruises he’s already bestowed upon him.  Fletcher juts his hips forward, fucking into Andrew’s mouth, and Andrews takes it, takes it so well, and he swallows him as deep as he can.

Fletcher feels the pressure of Andrew’s throat constricting, and it feels so good Fletcher can’t help but slide in a fraction deeper, choking Andrew and filling him so that he can’t breathe or do anything except let out small helpless moans.

“You like being choked with my cock, don’t you?” Fletcher says, panting, because the hot wet pressure is too much, and he’s close. “You’re so good at it.”

When their gazes meet, there’s a beat, and then Andrew winks at Fletcher, actually _winks,_ and of fucking course that’s when Fletcher comes, spilling down Andrew’s throat and grunting out his orgasm as it booms in his ears. Andrew swallows it all, and Fletcher is aware that Andrew pulls off so he can continue to lick him clean as he begins to soften in his mouth.

“Stop,” Fletcher gruffly says, and he pulls himself out and Andrew keeps his mouth open slightly.  He tugs on Andrew’s arm until Andrew gets the point and stands up, and then Fletcher grabs him by the hips and hauls him into his lap. Andrew straddles his thighs, shifting to get comfortable, and Fletcher shifts with him so that they’re face to face. Fletcher palms him though his pants and finds that Andrew is still achingly hard — a wonder, as sometimes Andrew shoots off before he’s even touched — and Andrew bites his lip and thrusts forward into his touch. 

Andrew stares at him with those downturned Elvis eyes while Fletcher unfastens Andrew’s jeans; Fletcher sees that Andrew’s eyelashes are sticking together and are shaped into tiny triangles, damp from sweat? tears?  both?  Why would he be crying, he cries so damn much. 

It bothers Fletcher.

Andrew’s lips are as soft as they look — full and sticky, and when Fletcher takes his bottom lip between his teeth to taste those pomegranate-red lips he finds that they are as tangy as the fruit themselves.

“Nice,” Fletcher says, and Andrew forces his mouth against his and slides his tongue inside, clutching at Fletcher’s arms for support.  When they part, Fletcher finds that Andrew’s breath smells like him and he stores away _come-breath_ as a future insult for him, but for now he just grins and pulls Andrew’s dick out of his underwear and starts stroking him in quick but efficient pumps.

Fletcher knows that it won’t take much to bring Andrew off; he’s already acting like he’s beyond fucked-out, he’s breathing hard and his chest is slick with sweat, and he’s arching his back so he can fuck into Fletcher’s fist with precise thrusts.  Fletcher places his other hand at the small of Andrew’s back so he has something to brace himself with as he rolls his hips against Fletcher. Andrew is doing a good job, and Fletcher figures he’ll indulge Andrew, and he rubs his thumb over the tip and spreads the leaking fluid down his shaft, and _ah_ , there they are, those uncontrollable fitful movements of Andrew’s body as he moans out pleads.

They are delightful, and Fletcher loves torturing Andrew with them, denying his release for as long as possible. He’ll pull back from touching him, until Andrew is thrashing against him so much he thinks he might rip himself in two.  Then, Fletcher returns his hand around him, and works him to completion, because then Andrew deserves it.

When Fletcher kisses Andrew’s cheeks, he tastes salt — from sweat or tears, again, he does not know. 

Andrew comes loudly, and sobbing out as he splatters white streaks onto both of their stomachs and in Fletcher’s hand. Andrew continues to buck his hips, grinding out the last of his orgasm until he must be too exhausted because he stops and all but collapses against Fletcher’s chest, heaving out deep shuttering breaths.

Fletcher eases back into the plush of the sofa and places his hand at the nape of Andrew’s neck.  Andrew understands — he turns his head and buries it in Fletcher’s shoulder, inhaling his scent.

“My Andrew,” Fletcher says.  Fletcher whispers his admiration sparingly, and not loud enough so that Andrew will take too much notice.  It has to be subtle — or else it won’t work. 

Not too much, or else Andrew would not believe it. He doesn’t want that from Fletcher — he wants the brutality with the sincere.  (But sometimes, Fletcher isn't sure what Andrew wants from him anymore, or what he wants from Andrew. Nothing. Everything.)

“You’re the best,” Fletcher says, and turns so that he can kiss the corner of Andrew’s mouth.  “Pristine,” he says, and he feels Andrew relax against him, trustful.

His plan is working perfectly.

**Author's Note:**

> Fletcher's POV is difficult. But I wrote this is one sitting, which never happens, so yeah.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feedback is always appreciated. And remember you can always chat with me all things Whiplash on [tumblr.](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com/)


End file.
